


Writer's Month 2020

by EvelynThursday



Category: Cadfael (TV), Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters, Doctor Who (2005), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pet Store, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sick Character, Sickfic, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Writer's Month 2020, mention of child murder in chapter 13, the Stenza are really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 15,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynThursday/pseuds/EvelynThursday
Summary: This is the collection for all the fandom prompts I have written for Writer's Month 2020.Multi fandom one shots, chapter titles include fandom and prompt, tags to be added as applicable.#1. The Musketeers - tattoo artist/flower shop AU#2. Doctor Who (13) - quarantine#3. The Musketeers - soulmates#4. Cadfael - ocean#5. Cadfael - hurt/comfort#6. The Musketeers - illness#7. Cadfael - bunnies#8. The Musketeers - light#9. Cadfael - Metamorphosis#10. Doctor Who - coffee shop AU#11. Doctor Who - history#12. Doctor Who - cooking#13. Doctor Who - myths#14. The Musketeers - deaging#15. Doctor Who - loss#16. The Musketeers - family#17. Cadfael - pet shop AU#18. The Musketeers - poison#19. The Musketeers - drop#20. The Musketeers - summer vacation#21. Doctor Who - dream#22. Doctor Who - fantasy#23. The Musketeers - high school AU#24. The Musketeers - there was only one bed!#25. The Musketeers - joy
Comments: 28
Kudos: 59
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	1. The Musketeers - Tattoo artist/flower shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first tattoo artist/flower shop AU, I hadn't even heard of it until I saw the prompt list. That's why I love things like Writer's Month - you learn new things!

It was funny, Aramis mused as he packed potted roses into a cardboard tray for the fair tomorrow, that people were so surprised that the little tattoo parlour and even smaller florist shop next door always shared the rented two-stall gazebo at the town’s summer fair each year. And some were even more surprised to find the owners of each shop regularly hanging out in each other’s shop.

“But you are completely different businesses!” he had been told, many times. “You should stay well away from unsavoury people like  _ that _ ” he had also been told by a certain type of people disgusted by their friendly neighbourhood florist spending time in tattoo parlour next door. Athos, owner of said tattoo parlour, had moaned many times about another type of people telling him “you should stop spending so much time with that florist, people’ll start to think you’re  _ gay _ .” Neither type of people got to stay in their respective shops for long.

It didn’t seem to occur to people that they might have met and become friends before they had started their businesses. But they had met at their university’s fencing club and despite their wide range of courses (Aramis was doing theology, Athos politics and Porthos African history) they had quickly become fast friends.

“Aramis! Have you finished packing your plants yet?” D'Artagnan, the newest member into their now group of four, barged into the shop, setting the little bell above the door wildly ringing. “Athos is just bringing the van over now. He says that you need to get everything in the van by 9 and you can’t load anything in the morning, we are leaving at 8 sharp. And to remind you to not forget the vegan burgers in your fridge like you did last year! I’ll be back to help you load in a bit!” He dashed out again.

That was the other funny thing, they had been quite happy as a three, in fact several people during and after university had tried to insert themselves into their little group and all had failed, but this young man, barely out of his teens, had inserted himself so seamlessly into their group after a rather surprising entrance into their lives. He would never forget the day when, during a coffee break with Porthos and Athos in the back of his little shop, d’Artagnan had stormed in, accusing Athos of adding poison to the rose thorns in the bunch of flowers he delivered that killed his father. But after the police investigation, the trial and the guilty party jailed that they had discovered that they had made friends with the boy and were pleased when he decided to stick around. Now things just wouldn’t be right if he wasn’t always around, popping into both shops and doing little favours and being a general nuisance. 

A loud horn sounded outside. Right, enough thinking Aramis, time to load the van full of plants for a hopefully successful fair. And if nothing else, a day spent hanging out with good friends eating Porthos’ delicious barbecued sausages was a day well spent.


	2. Doctor Who - quarantine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor seems to have made a bit of a landing error, to her cost.

“What’s happened?” asked Yaz as she, Ryan and Graham were shepherded into the room. It was long but narrow, adjoining the small neighbouring room by clear airlock doors and a wide, floor length window. On the other side was the Doctor, sitting on a white bed. “Why are you in there? No one’s telling us anything.”

“Heya, Fam!” the Doctor replied, brightening up from her previous examination of the bare, sterile-white walls. “I kinda landed us in a bit of a pickle. But it’ll be fine. This planet has been quarantined as it’s in the middle of a global pandemic.” She looked down, sheepish. “Should have checked the date, sorry fam.”

“What kind of pandemic?” asked Yaz. “Are we at risk?”

“Thankfully humans aren't affected by the sickness, though you can pass it on to those who are. But you’ve been through decontamination, right?” Ryan nodded.

“It was like a cold steam shower, fully clothed!”

“Not an experience,” Graham added, “that I’d like to repeat.”

“That means you can’t pass on the sickness to anyone in this facility and once they’ve brought the Tardis here and decontaminated her, she’s not gonna like that, you are free to come and go as you like. Though you’ll have to stay inside the facility.”

“But what about you?” Asked Ryan. “Why are you in there?”

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer,” murmured Graham to Yaz. She bit her lip and nodded at him. The Doctor sucked air in between her teeth.

“You see, it would seem that Time Lords are a close enough biological match to the local population. I’m infected. But I’ll be fine, I’m made of stern stuff, me.”

Yaz put her hand up on the glass.

“But surely if humans can’t catch it we can go in there. We can’t leave you alone.” The Doctor shook her head.

“I’m sorry Yaz, they just don’t have the resources to decontaminate you all the time and it’s best to keep you apart just in case the sickness mutates and jumps species. I need you three to stay safe.”

“What’s going to happen to you?” asked Graham gravely. “How bad are things going to get?”

The Doctor gave him a wan smile.

“I don’t know. But by the sound of it, bad.”

“Well,” said Yaz, putting on a brave voice. “Even if we can’t go in there we are staying here. We’re not going anywhere.”


	3. The Musketeers - soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan was not expecting to find his soulmate(s!) in this manner!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve probably introduced laudanum a few decades too early based on my (contradictory) research, let’s just say that Aramis and the farmer's wife are well versed in new science!

Aramis shuddered as he remembered Porthos’ shout of “D’Artagnan’s down!” over the sound of firing pistols and the clash of steel on steel. Even the thought of one of his brothers hurt set his heart racing.

The skirmish had been short but bloody, leaving the road outside the little farmhouse they were guarding littered with the bodies of raiders and one Musketeer. Thankfully d’Artagnan had been stubbornly clinging to ill humoured consciousness even as his blood spilled from a ragged pistol shot wound taking a chunk out of his side.

“Why am I the one hurt this time?” he had groused, as Aramis tore his shirt to get a better view of the wound. “I got hurt last time!” 

By the time he had been moved into the farmhouse and laid on the wooden kitchen table he had turned white and silent from the pain, but soon relaxed under the effects of the poppy juice the farmer’s wife had fortunately produced.

Aramis mentally shook himself out of his memories and concentrated on the scene before him. D'Artagnan's wound was low on his side, any lower and the ball would have hit the bone in his hip, and still sluggishly bleeding. He instructed Athos to press a wad of cloth against the wound to stem the flow as he prepared his medical kit. Porthos settled himself by the window, keeping a watchful guard across the road and yard. The bodies of the raiders would have to stay there until they had some hands free to clear them up.

Athos moved to by d’Artagnan’s head when Aramis was ready, even with the poppy juice flowing through his veins this was going to be painful for the youngest Musketeers and Athos offered a distraction. As Aramis tugged the top of d’Artagnan’s breeches down to get better access to the area around the wound Athos took the boy’s hand and turned his head in his direction. He also placed his free hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, both as an expression of comfort and to pin him down if needed.

Aramis suddenly gasped. Porthos leapt up at the surprise, expecting trouble. Athos looked over in concern.

“What’s the matter?”

“No,-” He hurriedly replied, “-it’s nothing. Everything’s fine.” 

Aramis ignored the looks the Porthos and Athos gave each other before settling back into their previous positions and kept on working. The wound was soon cleaned, stitched and bandaged and d’Artagnan moved to the spare bed upstairs to sleep off the poppy juice. The three remaining Musketeers, after moving the bodies of the raiders to the cattle shed for burial tomorrow, shared a modest meal with the farmer and his wife, keeping an attentive eye and ear on the darkening road outside. Aramis’ strange reaction was forgotten.

It was not until later, after the farmer and his wife had gone to bed and d’Artagnan had woken and partaken of his saved share of supper that Aramis confessed that there was something on his mind, never far from his thoughts since cleaning d’Artagnan’s wound.

“I discovered something whilst I was patching up d’Artagnan.” he said as he sat on a chair by the single window of the small room. He looked over at Porthos, sitting on the edge of the pup’s bed, and Athos, sat on a low stool near the fire, cleaning his pistols. “It surprised me and I didn’t mean to startle either of you, for which I apologise.”

“Yes, you did act rather strangely,” said Athos. “I meant to ask you about that.”

“What did you find?” asked d’Artagnan, sitting up in the bed, a folded blanket behind his back in lieu of a second pillow. “Surely you’ve seen my soulmark before?”

Aramis absently fingered a patch of skin under his left collarbone through the material of his shirt, eyes staring through the bare plaster wall to Athos’ left.

“I think that we were wrong when we thought our three were the complete set,” he said, then looked at Athos, then Porthos. “It turns out that we may have a fourth.” D’Artagnan’s brows creased at Aramis’ cryptic words. 

“You mean…?” asked Porthos, eyes widening as his gaze flicked between Aramis and their youngest. Aramis nodded. He turned to d’Artagnan.

“There is something we need to talk to you about. You were right that I saw your soulmark whilst I was treating your wound, but I had never seen it before, none of us have. But may we see it now?”

D'Artagnan brow creased at Aramis's strange behaviour and words but nodded in permission.

Aramis moved to stand by Porthos, who was tense with anticipation; Porthos had always wanted a little brother and whilst he already loved him as a brother if d’Artagnan’s soulmark was as he remembered he would become one in all but blood. Athos abandoned the warmth of the fire and came to stand by his other side.

D’Artagnan lifted his shirt to reveal the white bandages underneath then pushed down the top of his breeches. Blue and black swirls painted under his skin peeked out from the bottom edge of the bandages. Aramis felt the same as when he had first clapped eyes on d’Artagnan’s soulmark - like he had just been punched in the stomach. He could also feel Porthos’ hand find then tighten around his wrist. 

The bandages were carefully moved aside and d’Artagnan’s soulmark was revealed. Against a background of light blue spiralling across the skin atop his hip was a simple, black fleur-de-lys.

Silence fell. D’Artagnan looked up at his three friends, fearful in their presence for the first time since he had met them. Then suddenly, movement.

Porthos shed his jacket and untied his shirt lacing, opening the neck enough to bare his left shoulder. Aramis opened his shirt front too and tugged the fabric across to show under his left collarbone. Athos unbuckled the ever present leather band around his right wrist, and twisted it to show the inner side.

There on each of them was a black fleur-de-lys backed with blue, identical to each other and to d’Artagnan’s, though Athos’ was marred by an old, well healed scar. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes went wide.

“But-but-” he stuttered. “But what does this mean? You can’t… I can’t…”

“It can mean whatever you want it to mean. But for now nothing will change. Soulmates can be friends not lovers and most of the time that is what we are to each other. Though we have turned for comfort from each other at our darkest times. But first and foremost we are brothers and now you are too.”

“Who knows about you?”

“Other than us only Treville.”

“Though I suspect that Milady has suspicions,” interrupted Athos. “But she has never made any indication of her true knowledge.”

“You should tell Constance about this,” continued Aramis, “but it doesn’t change anything about your relationship. This doesn’t change the fact that you love her and she loves you. This will not stop you marrying her one day. But she deserves to know.”

D’Artagnan just nodded, overwhelmed with information and feelings he didn’t know how to process. Then he let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

“My mark was part of the reason why I wanted to become a Musketeer, though I didn’t expect it would help me find my match. But here you are, three of you.” He suddenly went quiet. “ “...Three…” he murmured.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” said Aramis, swapping positions with Porthos and sinking onto the bed by d’Artagnan’s bared hip, “especially after being injured. Would you like to be alone or would you like us to keep you company?”

D’Artagnan looked at him a little lost.

“Alone,” he said, “please.”

Aramis nodded.

“You get some sleep, we’ll be downstairs in the kitchen and one of us will always be on guard if you need us.” He patted d’Artagnan’s knee through the rough woollen blanket and rose to his feet, leaving the room. 

Athos followed him, but not before wordlessly putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, squeezing it in support and comfort.

Porthos paused in the doorway.

“We’ve always considered you our brother, pup,” he said. “This just proves it.”

He gave d’Artagnan one last grin before following his brothers downstairs, leaving one young Musketeer alone with his thoughts.


	4. Cadfael - ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Giles Beringar asks questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Cadfael fanfic! From what I have read in this fandom is that Hugh having a son named Giles is popular, though I can’t find who had the original idea (my research tells me that he doesn't have a son in the books, though that might be wrong, I've only got to reading book 3). I really like the thought of Hugh naming his son after his wife’s late brother, whose unfortunate demise played a large part in their meeting and subsequent relationship, so I have used it here.

“What’s the sea like?” asked little Giles Beringar as he sat on Brother Cadfael’s knee. They sat on a bench outside the elderly monk’s herbarium, enjoying the evening sunlight. Giles’ father, Hugh, had left his 4 year old son in Cadfael’s care whilst he conversed with the Abbot in his chamber as Giles had demanded to see Brother ‘Cadful’ when he learned of Hugh’s summons. “Papa said you boated across it when you were younger.”

“Well, my boy,” started Cadfael, “I did travel across the sea when I fought under the cross in Jerusalem. Before my first voyage I didn’t know what it was going to be like, I had never seen the sea before. It was exciting, until I got sea sick on the first day. I got very sick.” Giles screwed his face up.

“Like Papa last winter?” Cadfael nodded. “Ewwww.”

“The sickness passed after a few days and I got to enjoy it. When you are on a ship the sea stretches across from horizon to horizon and you can only see the land if you are close enough to it. There were days where I could not see the land at all. The sun sparkles off the waves and when the wind blows you can taste the sea. When the ship is near port the sea birds fly alongside the ship and you can hear them calling.”

“Does the sea shine brighter than Saint Win-frid’s box?” 

“Saint Winifred’s reliquary, yes.”

“Wow,” Giles breathed and Cadfael could see the wonder and the evening’s golden light shine in his wide eyes. “I want to see the sea.”

“One day you will, my boy, I am sure.”


	5. Cadfael - hurt/comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh is just a little bit cold. And wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps there isn’t much hurt in this prompt, but there is plenty in others – the soulmate fill for prompt #5 for one! And there may or may not be more to come....

It was a very bedraggled figure that rode into the courtyard of Shrewsbury Abbey that cold winter’s evening. Hugh Beringar slumped in the saddle, limp hair almost brushing the horse’s mane, clothes dark with damp. 

A few monks of the Abbey, still finishing their daily duties after Vespers crowded round, surprised to see the deputy sheriff of the county in such a state. It seemed to take a few moments for him to notice he had company, shake out the cobwebs in his mind and sit up straighter, though he was shivering so violently it was a surprise that he was still on his horse.

“Lord Beringar,” said Brother Jerome, descending the steps trailed by two of the younger novices. “Do you have news of the culprit?”

“I came to tell the Abbot that his thief has been caught and is being held in the castle.” His words were so stuttered and slurred that the surrounding monks found it hard to understand him. “If you kindly tell the Abbot in my stead, and pass on my apologies at not giving him the news personally, I would like to go home and get warm.”

“You cannot go back into the city like this,” said Jerome in his usual brisk manor, “you are soaking wet and shivering like a leaf. It would be very bad form if we let our deputy sheriff succumb to the cold when we have warmth within our walls.”

The thought of warmth was irresistible and he nodded in acceptance.

“Just until I get warm, my wife will be wondering where I am.”

Hugh stiffly climbed off his horse but his frozen fingers slipped off the saddle and he fell more than dismounting, knees buckling as he hit the ground, the hands of a helpful monk or two the only reason why he didn’t end up on the floor.

“Brother Oswin,” called Jerome as Hugh found his feet, “fetch Brother Cadfael.”

“No need,” came a voice from the Abby steps. “I am here. And what happened to you, Hugh? You look absolutely frozen!”

“Ended up in the Severn.” He looked a little sheepish at that admission and the sound of his teeth chattering as he spoke. “But I caught your thief, he’s in the castle dungeon as we speak.”

“Then he is in far more comfort than you are in now.” Cadfael turned and ploughed his way through the increasing crowd of curious monks, looking back at Hugh when he didn’t move. “Come, Hugh, come. You’ll catch your death of cold like that.”

\------------

The heat in the infirmary burned Hugh’s frozen skin, hands and face painful as they started thawing before he finished ridding himself of his soaked clothes. They were sodden through to the skin and slid off uncomfortably, even with Cadfael’s warm helping hands. 

He had been reluctant to let the monk help at first, pride taking control of his actions even as his muscles still shook uncontrollably. 

“I am not a young maiden, Hugh,” said Cadfael as Hugh stubbornly fumbled with the buckle of his sword belt. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate and he found that he couldn’t even rid himself of it, let alone the rest of his wet clothes that stuck firmly to his skin with both water and mud. “I dare say I’ve seen more men’s bodies in my years than you have!”

But he finally acquiesced and Cadfael’s practiced hands soon rid Hugh of his outer clothing, ice dropping into puddles on the infirmary floor. They were placed near the brazier that a pair of novices had brought over, under the hesitant direction of Brother Oswin, to dry. His under layers soon followed and Hugh was left wrapped up in a thick woollen blanket sat on one of the infirmary beds, still shivering, as Cadfael ran a cloth through his sopping hair. 

Silence reigned between the pair as one worked and the other slowly warmed. Words were not needed as Cadfael finished drying Hugh’s hair and worked on removing the mud that was drying on his skin.

Cadfael’s hands were gentle as he wiped the cloth in long strokes down Hugh’s arms and chest. Whilst he was sure that the water hadn’t been heated it felt like sinking into a hot bath, the warmth of the water washing away all traces of mud and grime from the River Severn. 

Once the monk was finished Hugh was given a warm broth to drink then covered with many more blankets as he lay down. Hot rocks wrapped in cloths were brought to him and placed by his feet and around his sides. He curled round one of the heated rocks in an attempt to stop shivering. 

It seemed to take an age but finally Hugh’s muscles stilled, relaxing into an aching calm. He sat up but was restrained by Cadfael’s hands on his shoulders, forcing him back down.

“You stay here until I say you can go. I’ll not have you riding the streets when you have only just stopped shivering.”

“But Aline…”

“I’ve sent one of the novices to inform her of your whereabouts, so you needn’t worry about her. Rest and I’ll check up on you later.”

Hugh watched his friend as he pottered around the infirmary, chatting with patients and checking in the infirmary store cupboards. He didn’t notice when the day’s exertions finally caught up with him, slipping peacefully to sleep, cosy and warm at last.


	6. The Musketeers - illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Treville probably should have stayed in bed this morning.

It was to an aching head and a sore throat that Captain Treville had woken to that morning. It had been an effort to just get out of bed, gravity seemed to be pulling on him harder than usual and breakfast had barely started to pass his lips before it started to rebel in his stomach. Usually he left his rooms and headed to the garrison with no hesitation but this morning his gaze had lingered on his bed before he dragged himself out of the door.

Even now, sat hunched over his desk and trying to focus on the pile of paper that he had to finish before the lunchtime duty allocations for the afternoon, he fought between asking one of his lieutenants to take over for the day, and soldering on; it was an inconvenience that he was sure he could work through. But he had important duties to attend to, ones which he felt he had to complete himself, no matter how competent he knew his lieutenants were. At least the chill that had sunk into his bones and the shivers that had plagued him all morning had finally eased.

The sudden clatter of boots on the wooden stairs leading to his office snapped him out of the hazy state he hadn’t realised he had sunk into and he hurriedly re-inked his pen and tried to look like he was hard at work. The loud knock on the door drove spikes of pain through his already aching head.

“Come,” he croaked, surprised at the roughness of his voice and the ache that climbed up the back of his throat at that single word. 

His four best and most troublesome Musketeers trailed into the room, Athos at the head of the small procession, then Porthos, Aramis and finally d’Artagnan, who shut the door behind him.

“Captain,” said Athos, standing to some sort of attention, as did the others.

“I have some maps I need the four of you to look over,” said Treville, “for your next mission in a few days.” He looked for them on his desk then realised the maps were still safely locked away in his cabinet.

He stood up from his desk to get them and the world suddenly tilted, vision blurring and head erupting in pain. For a second he thought he was going to fall. But Aramis was suddenly at his side, holding him up with one hand under his elbow, the other pressing against his forehead. Aramis frowned.

“I think you should be lying down, Captain.”

“I’m fine, Aramis,” said Treville, shaking his head, causing everything to take another turn and he felt himself lean more heavily on Aramis’ arm. “It’s nothing.” Aramis sighed.

“You have a fever and you’re sick enough that I don’t think you have realised you have ink on your fingers and have left marks all over your documents.”

Treville cursed as he looked down and saw the black ink on his fingers and the smudges on his papers, then tried to sit back in his chair but was restrained by Aramis long enough for Athos to slip smoothly into the empty seat.

“Get some rest, Treville,” said Athos. “I’m sure I can get most of your work done, and you can instruct me in the rest once you’ve had a nap. You don’t have any duties that take you to the palace today, correct?”

Treville knew he was beaten, not even an order could dissuade the Inseparables from doing what they thought was right once they had gotten their teeth into the task.

“I had no plans to go to the palace today, no. And I can’t think of any reason why I would be summoned either. But wake me if you need me.”

“Yes Captain,” Athos replied, sounding slightly amused. Treville could tell he had no plans to follow that particular order but couldn’t find the energy to care about it.

Aramis led him to the bed at the back of the office, where he slept whenever he was needed early in the morning or if he was staying up late working. Porthos had already stripped and redressed the bed in its sheets and blankets and was beating up the thin pillow in an attempt to make it more comfortable. It would have been irresistibly inviting even without the homely treatment. He sunk gratefully onto the edge and only just managed to keep himself from flopping along its length, weapons belt and boots still on.

D’Artagnan slipped back into the room carrying a tray of food, covered with a napkin. Treville hadn’t even realised he had left. 

“Serge said he is going to make you some of his mother’s soup for later,” said d’Artagnan, placing the tray on the foot of the bed. Treville’s stomach couldn’t decide if the thought of Serge’s mother’s soup was appetising or sickening though his head knew that that particular recipe was a rare treat, “though he gave me some rabbit and mutton pie and boiled potatoes.” D’Artagnan took off the napkin and the smells emitting from the plate turned Treville’s stomach.

“Later, please, d’Artagnan.” Thankfully the smells, and most of the nausea, dissipated once the cloth was returned.

Aramis seemed to read his mind and tugged on the strap of his powder horn, hanging from his weapons belt, as a distraction.

“Let’s get you comfortable, Captain,” said Aramis. Treville fumbled with the buckle on his belt and let Aramis take it off him whilst he started on the many buttons on his doublet. Why had he chosen to have so many buttons again?

Treville knew that captains from other regiments wouldn’t allow themselves to be helped, let alone undressed, by men under them, but Treville knew that his men were not going to be gossiping about this in the taverns tonight. And to be honest he was feeling too terrible to even care. 

Aramis slid the leather down Treville’s shoulders and placed the doublet safely with his belt on the back of a nearby chair that Porthos had brought over before quietly talking to Athos as d’Artagnan knelt at his feet to remove his boots. He was going to draw the line if someone started to take off his trousers, but thankfully they realised that even as undignified as he was right now he did want to preserve some sort of modesty. 

Suddenly he felt a hard weight rest on his thighs and without looking down he could smell that Aramis had just placed the tray of food in his lap. 

“No, thank you, Aramis,” he said as the Musketeer in question removed the napkin from over the plate, aromas assaulting his nose again, with the same consequences as before.

“Have you eaten anything today?” asked Aramis. Treville shook his head. “Then you’ve got to eat something. Hunger probably isn’t helping the nausea.” Treville knew this already but hearing someone else saying it, especially Aramis who he trusts with the emergency medical needs of both himself and the garrison, made him begrudgingly pick up the fork and spear a small piece of potato.

He tried to keep his attention on his men rather than the churning of his stomach: Athos and Porthos working together at his desk, d’Artagnan pouring beer out of a flagon that seemed to have appeared out of thin air (he must have left and returned without his noticing, an indication of how ill he was if he couldn’t keep track of four of his men in a single room) and Aramis attentively watching him eat.

D’Artagnan passed him the beaker he had just filled. The beer, well watered down, soothed his throat aggravated by the food. With this lubrication he managed a few more bites of meat and potatoes but soon he found he couldn’t take another.

He did feel a fraction better than he had, though he wasn’t going to give Aramis the satisfaction of being right. He made to move the tray aside but Aramis removed it from his hands putting it on the nearby chair that Porthos had dragged into position in lieu of a bedside table in case he felt like eating more later.

Now that he had nothing to distract him he realised that his limbs and head were heavy and he couldn’t resist the call of his bed. He lay down as Aramis covered him with a blanket.

“We’ll be here if you need us, Captain,” said Aramis.

“Thank you Aramis,” Treville murmured in reply, as he quickly succumbed to the comforting blackness of sleep.


	7. Cadfael - bunnies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh shows Cadfael a valuable cargo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rabbits were thought to have been introduced to the UK by William the Conqueror (therefore not technically a native species!) and for centuries were a delicacy only for the nobility and royalty. Eventually the rabbits escaped the warrens and dispersed into the landscape and bred, well, like rabbits. I’m guessing that as the meat was the preserve of nobility during Cadfael’s time (1130s-50s-ish) the furs were too.   
> I guess this could be set any time during the TV series or after book #2: One Corpse Too Many. I don’t know if there are any books it is set before, I’m only at book #3: Monk’s Hood! This is pure, unabashed fluff.

“Cadfael,” said Hugh from where he was propped up against the stone doorway. “I’m not sure the Abbot would approve if you started keeping rabbits in your herbarium. Not to mention you’d be stealing from the King.”

“I’m not going to steal one, Hugh,” said the monk in question, sitting atop a wooden crate in one of the castle’s storerooms, a rabbit in his arms and its cage, lid open, at his feet. One of the other three rabbits remaining in the cage had its paws up on the edge of the open hole and was looking around the small storeroom, nose twitching. “I am just making sure that they are being well cared for whilst they are here.”

Hugh thought he was here for more than just checking up on the cargo, making its way to one of the King’s warrens further north, but he didn’t say anything. His friend looked far too comfortable with his fingers stroking the soft grey fur, as did the rabbit, who had tucked its head into the warm folds of Cadfael’s habit. 

“I will make sure they are fed and watered and looked after, Cadfael. Nothing will harm them.”

The curious rabbit jumped up atop its cage and Hugh hurriedly moved into the room and shut the door behind him to ensure the precious cargo didn’t try to escape. The rabbit ignored him and leapt down to the floor and with a sudden burst of restless speed shot between two crates then around another cage before completing the circuit of the room by jumping over Cadfael’s feet to land near Hugh. 

Hugh bent down to grab the rabbit before it decided to do another mad dash around the room. It struggled in his arms for a moment, kicking him in the stomach, before calming down. He wasn’t sure quite how to hold it but wrapping his arms around it like a baby seemed to be a safe way.

It was strangely nice holding the rabbit. He had only seen them in passing as they were transported through the town, a creature jealously guarded by the king and the nobles lucky enough to own a warren. It was different from holding rabbit fur too; that he was acquainted with, as deputy sheriff he had previously been charged with the care and keeping of several passing lord’s possessions, including one or two rabbit fur cloaks. It was somehow comforting to hold a warm, living and breathing creature in his arms. 

The rabbit shifted and kicked him in the stomach again. He quickly put it back in its cage and shut the lid to ensure it didn’t escape, but not before giving it one last stroke: its fur was ever so soft. He looked up at Cadfael, the old monk smiling warmly down at him.

“God’s creatures really are beautiful. I feel blessed to have gotten to meet these ones.” Cadfael carefully put his rabbit back in its cage and secured the latch, then, after standing up and brushing the fur off his habit, laid on hand on his friend’s arm. “Thank you, Hugh, for letting me see them. I know that only your chosen men and the soldiers that came with them were supposed to be near them.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hugh with a smile, guiding the elderly monk out of the room with a gentle hand on his back. He took one last look at the small stack of cages and the movement he could see within them then locked the door behind them.

“Lord Beringar!” came a call from down the corridor.

“Well,” said Cadfael, patting Hugh on the arm. “I’d better leave you to your duties.” He looked out of the window at the pink streaking across the sky. “And if I linger any longer I’ll be late for Vespers!”


	8. The Musketeers - light

Colours painted the white walls of the church as Aramis walked down the aisle. Confetti of light in thousands of hues danced in the evening light, untouched by the darkness that had taken root in his heart. He could see them wink out as his shadow cast across them, as if the black inside of him had eaten them, but then blink back into life as he passed. 

Sunlight streamed through the clear windows by the altar, casting warm gold light across the sanctuary, setting the cross ablaze in gold. Aramis sunk to his knees before it, bathing in the warmth the light brought, slowly dispelling the darkness inside him.

He kept his head bowed as the lights slowly crept along the wall, and started to dim, losing the vivacity they had had just before. It was almost dark when he finally lifted his head, heart finally casting out the darkness inside it and gaining the light even as daylight waned and died.

He rose and passed between rows of shadows, ranks of darkness either side of his path towards the doors, a crack of lingering light spilling between them. It seemed to invite him closer, beckoning him towards them. The doors opened wide at his touch.

Aramis left into the night, glowing both inside and out. 


	9. Cadfael - Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadfael is looking after some caterpillars for Giles Beringar to watch and learn about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea of the life cycle of butterflies were as scientifically known then as they are today, (at some point in history people thought that swallows hibernated at the bottom of lakes and ponds instead of migrating to Africa as we now know they do) so if Cadfael’s knowledge is far too advanced I apologise! Also the butterfly I described is the peacock and the caterpillars are for the peacock, comma and small tortoiseshell.   
> Also, as it would seem that people don’t know this and aren’t passing it onto their children – DON’T TOUCH HAIRY CATERPILLARS! They can cause nasty rashes and even allergic reactions! Oak Precessionary Moth caterpillars (bad news – they can cause really bad reactions) have invaded my village this year and I was shocked to discover that people didn’t know what I had been taught from a very young age. Yes, the UK is relatively safe from a wildlife point of view but there are still things that can cause you to end up in hospital!

“Giles, are you ready to go?” Hugh peered round the open door into the shadows of the herbarium in the grounds of Shrewsbury Abbey.

“Not yet,” said his young son, eager gaze fixed onto the bunch of nettles in the corner of the wooden hut. “This one’s hatching!” Giles bounced on the spot, using the counter in front of him to push off with his arms, attention unwavering from the plants. His movement caused the jars further along the bench to shake and clink together.

“Calm down, Giles,” said Hugh, crossing to him and placing a soft hand on his son’s head. Once he was still Hugh crouched down to Giles’ level and smiled. “Which one is hatching?”

A small hand pointed past the stems of the nettles to the wooden battens beyond that made up the wall of the hut. There, underneath one of the battens was a small, yellow pupa, no longer than from tip to the first knuckle of his index finger. And it was shaking, a dark slit running down one side, a mass inside bulging out of the opening in the hard case. 

Giles looked at his father for the first time, eyes wide in wonder and mouth open in a tooth showing grin.

“Can we stay?” he asked. “Pleease,” he whined, “just until this one’s hatched.” Hugh glanced at the late summer sunlight streaming through the open doorway then back at Giles’ pleading eyes. He could not resist those eyes.

“As long as there is light remaining to get home we will. And remember what Brother Cadfael said, they are not hatching, they are emerging. And what do they emerge from?”

“Pupa!” came the enthusiastic reply.

It was warm in the herbarium, but not as hot as it had been at midday so the pair were comfortable as the bulging mass inside the pupa fought its way out. It didn’t matter to Hugh that his knees were starting to ache as he knelt on the dirt floor next to his son, chin resting on folded arms on the bench. He was relishing the rare moment he got to spend with his son. Usually he was too tired for much play once he got home, being deputy sheriff kept him busy, sometimes keeping him away from home until after Giles’ bedtime. This quiet moment he would keep in his heart to warm him in the freezing winter months to come.

The mass escaped from its case and crawled up to the top of the wooden batten. Now it looked like the butterfly it was, though its wings were crumpled and dark with damp. It took awhile for the butterfly’s wings to unfurl, but the pair didn’t get bored, watching the variety of caterpillars munch their way through the nettle leaves that Cadfael had harvested for them that morning. There were black caterpillars, mostly staying in a group on one of the stalks surrounded by silvery webs; smaller green caterpillars with black heads, also sheltering amongst a web; and black and white caterpillars with orange spikes dotted around the plants on their own. Hugh was glad that his son was acting on Cadfael’s advice, all the caterpillars were covered in fine hairs which, according to the monk, were not to be touched or he would end up in the infirmary covered in itchy and painful rashes. Normally he would have his hands on everything but this time he was keeping a respectful distance.

Suddenly the butterfly moved, flicking open brightly coloured wings: a deep, vivid red with blue and white eyes at the bottom of its wings. Then the colour disappeared, then appeared again. Giles was mesmerised at this display.

With one last flap of its wings the butterfly shot up into the air. It flew above their heads, circled the room and settled on the cork of a bottle on one of the many shelves around the room. Giles chased after it. He tried to reach up and touch it but it was too high and even jumping didn’t get him any closer to it. 

“Nooo,” whined Giles at the butterfly, “you need to go outside. You can’t stay in here.” He jumped again, waving his hands. The butterfly didn’t budge. “Papa,” he called to Hugh. “How do we get it out? It should be free now.” 

Hugh slowly climbed to his feet, knees aching from the long time on the floor. He moved Giles away from the butterfly and gently caught it in cupped hands. Fragile wings fluttered frantically between his hands.

He ushered his son outside and the pair stood in the golden sunlight

“Hold your hands out.”

Hugh covered Giles’s hands with his own, the butterfly trapped between them. Once the fluttering under his palms had stilled he withdrew them. The butterfly sat neatly on Giles’ hands, wings flicking open and closed, flashing the red and the dark eyes.

“Wow,” breathed Giles. He stood stock still, eyes never wavering as they hadn’t as he watched this butterfly emerge from its chrysalis. 

With a last fluttering of wings the butterfly suddenly swept off into the sky, into the evening sunset. Giles’s eyes never left it.

“Bye bye butterfly,” he whispered.


	10. Doctor Who - coffee shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yaz has a strange customer at her coffee shop.

“The same again, love?” The mysterious, blond customer, known only as ‘The Doctor’ grinned as Yaz reached for the travel cup that had just been placed onto the counter.

“Yes please!” 

She had turned up in her ancient blue VW campervan a few weeks ago and had started telling wild stories as soon as she had placed her outlandish and sugar filled order. 

She told tales of single-handedly saving a remote Russian village from an unusually aggressive polar bear, guiding newly hatched turtles into the sea on some tropical paradise and other such amazing things, her faithful blue van taking her and sometimes some friends to wherever her heart desired. She called herself a traveller but Yaz thought she was really an adventurer.

At the moment she was travelling around Europe, with plans to take her rickety van down to Africa in a year or two.

She said she never stayed in one place for long, but Yaz wondered why the Doctor was staying so long in Sheffield of all places. Especially spending a lot of her time hanging around a tiny independent coffee shop owned by a retired bus driver and his nurse wife and staffed mainly by their grandson Ryan and Yaz herself.

It was now not unusual to find her leaning at the far end of the counter during quiet periods, chatting away to her and Ryan, and also Grace and Graham if either were present. During busy periods she took herself and her ‘Starry Night’ travel cup out of the way to sit in the corner and watch the customers as they flitted in and out with curiosity. But she always returned to the counter to fill her cup one last time before driving off in her campervan.

Now she occupied her usual space at the counter as Yaz turned to the machines to make the Doctor’s coffee, chatting animatedly about seeing the summer solstice sunrise at Stonehenge and meeting the druids, pagans and the people of many faiths and none that were assembled there.

“That sounds amazing,” said Yaz. “I’ve always wanted to travel, even just around Britain, but I’ve never had the time, or the money.” She put the lid back onto the travel cup and pushed it across the wood towards the Doctor, sighing wistfully. “I’ll do it someday.” The Doctor gave her a sly smile.

“Do you think you could get a few weeks off from here?” she asked. “I can take you anywhere you want to go, and you needn’t pay a penny.”

“What?”

The Doctor inclined her head towards the blue van sitting innocuously outside the shop windows.

“Fancy a trip in the TARDIS?”


	11. Doctor Who - history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fam are curious about the Doctor's experiences in their past.

"So we've met Tesla and Edison," said Ryan, lounging on the steps in the TARDIS console room. "Rosa Parks, and Mary and Percy Shelley. And Lord Bryon. Who else in Earth’s history have you met?”

"She mentioned Pythagoras and Audrey Hepburn when she gave me her sunglasses on Desolation," mentioned Graham, sitting a few steps down from Ryan, cup of tea in hand.

“I’ve met lots of people from your past,” said the Doctor, kneeling at the base of the console, rummaging through a dented metal toolbox. “And your future, but I’m not supposed to tell you about them, got to preserve the time lines and all that.”

“Like who?” asked Yaz, leaning against one of the crystal pillars. “In the past, I mean.”

“Several Kings, and Queens, I even ended up marrying one! And writers, met loads of writers. 

“What about Dickens?” asked Graham, not even going to think about the Doctor’s comment about marrying royalty. “I was partial to a bit of Dickens when I was a teen.”

“So you were really rock and roll, ay Granddad,” sniggered Ryan.

“Yep, there were ghosts,” replied the Doctor as she lifted a section of flooring and heaved it to one side. “Or, well, aliens that looked like ghosts. And I’ve met Shakespeare, though he did flirt with me and my friend. We defeated some alien witches!”

“And you told us about Agatha Christie and the giant wasp,” pointed out Yaz.

“Please no more giant insects,” moaned Graham, “please Doctor. The spiders were bad enough.”

“I’d better not take you to meet the Zarbi then.” The Doctor stuck her arm down the hole and came up with a length of pipe which spontaneously disconnected into two parts with a whoosh that blew into her face.

“What about Churchill? My dad always wanted to meet Churchill,” said Graham.

“Met Churchill,” she replied, sonicing the broken connector. “Met Hitler too. I put him in a cupboard. He was not a happy Führer that day, I'll tell ya.”

“Really?” exclaimed Ryan. “That’s so cool!”

“You know,” said Graham. “I’m not sure everything you say is true.”

“It is true,” defended the Doctor as she fitted the two ends of pipe together and dropped it back into the hole. “I’ve just lived for far longer than you have and I have a time machine.”

“So who have you met from the future?” Asked Yaz. The Doctor gave her a sly grin.

“That would be telling,” she said, then dived underneath the console before anyone could utter another word.


	12. Doctor Who - Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham wished that he wasn't the first to wake up that morning.

Graham stared at the devastation before him, uncertain if what he was seeing was real or a lingering, waking dream. The kitchen of the alien hotel suite was not as he had left it last night; surely he would have remembered if the cooker spewed wires across the length of the room, if unidentifiable metallic  _ things _ were scattered across the floor, almost completely covering the tiles, and if the counters were bare of all the appliances that were there when they had investigated the room the evening before. There was even some sort of goo dripping down one of the walls.

In the middle of it all was the Doctor, goggles perched atop her head and sonic screwdriver in hand, grinning madly at him as if she hadn’t dismantled other people’s property in the middle of the night. How much would fixing this cost?!

“Mornin’ Graham!”

“Why?” was the single word that tumbled unbidden from his lips.

“Got bored waiting for you lot. You sleep for far too long.”

Graham couldn’t cope with this, still half asleep. He wasn’t sure he would know what to do even if he was fully awake. Perhaps if he went back to bed the Doctor would have it all fixed by the time the others woke up.

Wordlessly he turned his back on the Doctor’s mess and stumbled back to his bedroom, and tried to forget the sight he had just seen.


	13. Doctor Who - Myths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghost Monument was a symbol of luck and hope. Until the Stenza arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of child (and general) death. This fic involves the Stenza so not nice things happen.

The Ghost Monument was a symbol that was known to everyone on the planet that was not yet called Desolation, even though the monument hadn’t shown itself for over a thousand years. Carved and painted wooden figures of the blue box were given to babies when they were born, drawings were kept in pockets whilst travelling and gifts of food were left at the monument site, all in an attempt to appease the spirits of the monuments and to hopefully be granted their protection.

These symbols were gripped hard by the people fleeing into the countryside, leaving their homes and possessions behind, running for their lives. 

A Stenza warship soared overhead, firing its guns at the town, sending showers of concrete raining down on the people not killed by the blast. A child cried in fear and despair but was quickly silenced by the sound of a gun. Those trapped in the town, listening to the echoes of solid footfalls march through the streets, prayed that the spirits of the monument would defeat the Stenza or take their souls painlessly and after death take them to where the monument dwelt in the times between its visitations to this realm.

A group of dust and tear stained figures climbed the hill up to the monument site and knelt, exhausted, at the entrance of the sacred enclosure. An elder walked forwards and passed through the sacred arch, lifting his arms to the sky as explosions echoed around the valley below.

“Please, spirits of the Ghost Monument. Please listen to our prayers and save us from the scourge of the Stenza. We are dying and our children are scared. Please, Ghost Monument, please help us.”

Nothing answered in return.


	14. The Musketeers- deaging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville didn't think the Inseparables could be any less troublesome in a smaller size.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had to guess the age gaps between the four boys so apologies if I have got things drastically wrong. Set somewhere before the end of season 2.

Captain Treville covered his eyes with his hands and wished that the scene in front of him would just go away. 

“Um, excuse me, sir,” came a small voice. Treville let his hands slip from his face and looked at the speaker. Athos, well Olivier, stood in front of his desk with his chin up and back straight, feet planted solidly on the wooden floor but he couldn’t hide his nervousness from Treville’s practiced eyes. “Would you please explain what we are doing here? I, for one, would like to be returned to my parents. I don’t know what the Captain of the Musketeers would want with three children and a baby.”

Behind him a young Porthos stood with a protective arm around an equally young Aramis, now René, who clung to Porthos’s shirt with a thumb in his mouth. He would guess they were about ten to Olivier’s thirteen. D’Artagnan was a dark haired baby in Constance’s arms.

“An’ I ain't done no wrong,” added Porthos. 

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Treville assured them. He paused as he tried to think of something that didn’t make him sound crazy or send the small group racing out into the streets of Paris. “I’ll return you to your parents when I have found them and discovered what you were doing in those rooms you woke in.” ‘Those rooms’ being the rooms throughout Paris that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan apparently went to sleep in last night before they somehow turned into children overnight. If d’Artagnan’s cries hadn’t woken Constance in the early morning who then had the foresight to check on his three friends (and thank God Aramis had spent the night in his own bed, alone) then bring the children here, who knows what would have happened to them. “For now I want you safe in the garrison. That includes you Porthos, I know you live in the Court but I need you here. You’ll be fed and looked after here. Just try and stay out of trouble.” Fat chance of that, Treville thought to himself, they are probably just as much trouble as kids as they are as adults. But hopefully they won’t get into duels with the Red Guards at this size. “Constance, would you mind keeping an eye on them this morning, or are you needed back home?”

“I don’t mind staying. I’ve got to make sure this one is looked after,” she hitched d’Artagnan a little higher in her arms, “and I hope the boys won’t mind my company.”

Aramis stepped away from Porthos and gave Constance a face splitting grin, bowing deeply with an arm flourish.

“It would be an honour to have the attention of such a pretty lady.”

It was like a switch had been flipped, gone was the anxiety in the face of self assured flirtation. It was somehow a relief to see such characteristic behaviour in the child that once was Aramis, if rather inappropriate.

“Ar- René,” said Constance, fixing steely eyes lined with mirth on him. “None of that. I have a husband. And I am far older than you.” Aramis put a shocked hand to his chest.

“Surely not! A beauty such as yours transcends all age.”

“Enough, René,” sighed Treville, a stab of guilt piercing his stomach as a pair of fearful eyes turned to look at him. What had happened to Aramis in his youth that meant that he was comfortable with women but weary of men? “Please do as Constance says and try and stay out of trouble.”

“Would I be permitted to spar with some of your men?” asked Olivier. “I have been well tutored in the art of swordplay and would like to test my skill against a skilled soldier.”

“If you can wait until the afternoon I will find you a sparring partner.” Olivier made to speak but Treville interrupted him. “I do not doubt your skill but I need to know that your opponent will not lose themselves in the heat of the fight. They are soldiers first and foremost and friendly spars can quickly descend into duels.” Normally he would pass eager fighters onto Athos as he had the best skill with a cool head, but in this case he couldn’t make him fight himself! 

Olivier inclined his head in acquiescence.

“‘Ow long we gonna be ‘ere?” Asked Porthos. “I ain’t no prisoner. I won’t be trapped by any gilded bars.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Treville replied. “You are not prisoners here, I only ask that you stay. Those rooms you were found in belonged to some of my men and they are missing. They are like family to me and you are the only ones that might be able to help find them. Besides,” Treville nodded at Aramis who had a hand fisted in the side of Porthos’ shirt since he realised he would have to stay in the garrison full of men, “I think René needs a friend.” Porthos said nothing but replaced his arm around René’s shoulder.

“D’Artagnan gave a sudden cry that startled the young boys and Constance tried to hush him by rocking side to side but only succeeded to make the cries into whimpers.

“Constance, would you tell Serge to find the boys something to eat then send him up, please?” 

“Yes Captain,” said Constance. “Come on boys, let’s get you and this little one some breakfast.”

Treville rubbed a hand across his face and scrubbed at his eyes as Constance shepherded the boys out of the room. He was not looking forward to explaining this to the elderly Musketeer, the man was a soldier and a cook, not a babysitter! Then he had to explain to the whole garrison why there were four children in their midst.

And how was he going to recover his musketeers from the children they now were?


	15. Doctor Who - loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Doctor loses companions there is always something left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post an original work for this prompt but at the last minute decided that it wasn’t quite finished and I didn’t want to post it, despite planning to post it for the last month or two! So I hurriedly wrote this from scratch last night. I wanted to include more Classic Who in here but I’m not familiar with enough of it (one day I’ll see more than the four episodes I own on DVD) to add more than the scant references here.

The Doctor stood amongst a forest of doors, holding rank either side of her down the long corridor that curved off into the distance, end unseen. Each door was slightly different. Some were shiny and looked newly painted and some were worn and scared. Some were wood, others metal, some glass, stone or other exotic and strange materials. Most were rectangular but one or two were different shapes. All were shut.

This was a part of the TARDIS that none of her companions could access, this was hers and hers alone. Silent and sacred as a cemetery. It was, in essence, a cemetery of memories. 

She didn’t know why she had been drawn here, the TARDIS silent bar the ever present background hum. The Fam were sleeping, exhausted after another exhilarating adventure, complete with copious running. But she wasn’t feeling tired, still riding that high and too restless to sit still whilst she completed a spot of maintenance. Instead her feet had drawn her here.

She walked down the corridor, fingers brushing a door now and again, just wandering. She stopped at one door. It was pink painted wood, with a carved wooden name plate. Rose.

The door opened with a gentle push. Clothes were scattered over the floor and the large bed, a union jack shirt draped over a wooden chair sat in front of a white painted dresser. The surface of the dresser was covered in bottles and tubes, one still sat open, as if the occupant had just stepped out and would be back in a second or two.

The Doctor left, door silently closing behind her. She walked again, footsteps echoing softly around her.

Another door caught her eye. Painted wood like the last, but this time painted TARDIS blue. She didn’t have to open the door to know what lay behind it and just laid her hand and forehead on the surface, shutting her eyes and remembering. A hairbrush covered in long ginger hair sits on a chest of drawers next to a paper mache model of the TARDIS, and man’s deodorant sits next to them both. A bunk bed sits against one wall, a framed photograph of a young couple, an older woman with a mass of curls stood between them, hung up nearby.

She left that door behind, feet walking automatically as her brain sunk into memories of times now past. Of people now lost, or gone, ones she will never see again. Of rooms she passed, once full of life and laughter now cold and silent.

Of red hair, smart blazers and a mouth that took no prisoners, of baseball bats and unpredictable explosives, of textbooks and glass test tubes, of knives, of pencils, of squareness guns, of-

SMACK

The Doctor rebounded against a door, hearts hammering and head smarting from the impact. She looked around and found herself at the end of the corridor, the door opening to reveal the path back to the console room. She took one last look back at the long line of doors as she filled her lungs with fresher air, remembering the lives still present in the TARDIS, sleeping in their own rooms that one day will join these memorials to the past. She turned from them and strode away, the door closing behind her.


	16. The Musketeers - family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has a feast where he once had famine.

Athos looked down at his baby daughter in his arms, still enveloped in the many white folds of her christening dress. She squealed up at him, arms in the air, and he just could not contain the joy bubbling up inside him. He beamed down at her, kissing her fluffy, dark hair as she smacked him on the chin with a flailing limb.

He looked up across the small parlour room and the many people in it. His family was together again, something that had not happened for far too long; there were always one or two people unable to get out of their obligations at the right time.

But there was his two year old son, Raoul, playing on the rug with his Uncle Porthos, who had dragged himself away from his troops, Aunt Elodie and three year old Marie-Cessette; Aramis, miraculously managing to get a few days off from being France’s first minister, chatting to Sylvie as he leant against the windowsill, joined by d’Artagnan who was enjoying a few days away from his new recruits, Constance at his side, stomach just starting to bulge with new life.

Even Treville was present in a way, the decanter that had sat in his office for years, then in his rooms in the palace, now stood proudly next to a fine bottle of Burgundy on the sideboard. 

“You’re going to have to let go of her at some point.” Sylvie grinned at him as she sat at his side, brushing a finger down her daughter's cheek and drawing him into a kiss. 

“I don’t think I could bear it,” he replied, kissing her again. He really didn’t think he could, even after two and a half years with a wife and a child he still feared that everything that made him happy would disappear or be taken from him. As it had before.

Back when he was a Musketeer he never thought he would ever get the opportunity for this to happen. After his brother’s death and his wife’s execution he had thought that love was something to be avoided as it only led to heartbreak. 

But he had fallen in love again and in the eyes of the law the wife of the Comte de la Fere was dead so Athos had been free to marry Sylvie, though he had not broached the topic with Sylvie until after Milady had appeared one day whilst a heavily pregnant Sylvie was sleeping upstairs. She had given what passed as her blessing, now under the protection and employ of the Queen she was satisfied, if not happy, and no longer bore a grudge against Athos’ happiness.

They had wedded in the small chapel in the village, attended by only themselves, d’Artagnan, Constance, Elodie (Porthos was still at the battlefront and was devastated at not being able to come) and Raoul as a babe-in-arms. Aramis had been due to come but had been prevented by unrest in Paris, though he had been able to be there and give a blessing at Raoul’s christening a few months prior.

But now, here in the parlour of his small house in the countryside, his family was together again at last, all related by blood and by bond, and he could not be happier.


	17. Cadfael - pet shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh just pops in to Cadfael's rescue center for a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is not actually a pet shop AU but it is a animal rescue center AU, which I think is much more in keeping with the characters.

“Oswin, have you fed the new arrivals yet?” asked Cadfael as he loaded the washing machine in the laundry room, keen ears able to identify which member of staff was approaching by their footsteps.

“No, not yet,” the passing teen paused in the doorway and replied, “I got distracted with the kittens. You know that ginger one keeps hiding in the blankets and I keep thinking it has escaped so I went in and-”

“Yes, Oswin,” he interrupted. “I get the picture. Now go feed everyone in quarantine before they start howling in hunger.” The teen hurried off and Cadfael sighed.

“Business as usual then, Cadfael?” came a voice from behind. Cadfael turned in surprise.

“Hugh!” he exclaimed, delighted. “I wasn’t expecting you here today, you’re not scheduled on the volunteer roster until the weekend.” Hugh ducked out from under the open window that he had stuck his head through and came round through the staff only entrance of the utility room next door.

“Well, I was passing and I thought I would pop in and see how our newest guests are doing.”

“And…” Hugh looked at the worming medicine leaflet stuck to the notice board but said nothing. Cadfael fixed him with a stare. “The pups are the same as when you and those detective constables dropped them off yesterday. I know that’s not why you are here.” Hugh sighed.

“And I need your help with a case. If you’ve got a moment.”

“I’ve always got time for an old friend, you know that. Oswin can handle the center for a little while. Let’s get to my office, we won’t be interrupted in there.”

“Thanks, Boss.” Cadfael scowled at him.

“I stopped being your boss when I retired from the police.” Hugh gave him a cheeky smile.

“I know!”


	18. The Musketeers - poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos finds that a cut is not just a cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fill is the prequel to a little fic I wrote six (six!) years ago called ‘Sleep Aramis’. If you want brot4 cuddling give it a read.

Athos sat in the shade of an ornamental bush, but he couldn’t appreciate the peaceful surroundings. Instead he was propped up by the arm of Aramis at his side as he fought the weakness in his limbs and struggled to breath.

He remembered a shout from the crowd surrounding the king, sat on a throne upon a dais in the sunlit gardens of the palace

“Death to the King!” was the cry as a man lunged for the King, knife in hand. He had fended off the attack but in the scuffle received an elbow in the face which gave the villain enough time to escape, though he was pursued by d’Artagnan and Porthos. It was only after he had picked himself up off the ground that he noticed that the knife intended for the King had sliced across the back of his sword hand. At the time he had thought it only a trifle of a wound, but how wrong had he been.

“You’re ok,” said Aramis in his ear. “Keep breathing.”

He had chased after the culprit but found that he couldn’t keep up with d’Artagnan and Porthos as they disappeared in the shrubbery, then tripped over nothing and crashed to the ground. Aramis found him after a few seconds as he tried to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him by the fall. He tried to rise but found his limbs sluggish to respond. Aramis was at his side instantly, helping him to sit up.

“What’s wrong?” Aramis had asked. Athos had no idea. “Are you wounded?” Athos had shaken his head and with Aramis’ help had fought his way to his feet, determined to catch the man who had tried to assassinate the King. But he hadn’t got far before his vision swam, unable to catch his breath, and he collapsed to his knees clutching his chest as everything faded. 

The next thing he was aware of was the feeling of his cheek pressed into Aramis’s shoulder and a hand gently resting on his chest, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt doing little to calm the ache that had settled there. It felt like Porthos was sitting on his chest and he was aware he was making wheezing sounds with every breath that he could barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Each breath was a struggle and didn’t give him enough air to soothe the panicky racing of his heart. His fingers instinctively tightened on the grass under his hands but they barely moved. 

“Are you with me again, Athos?” Aramis asked in his ear. Athos tried to speak but all that came out was a breathless moan. His already frantic heart picked up speed as panic swirled in his belly. What had happened to him?

“That cut on the back of your hand,” Aramis continued. Athos tried to lift the hand to look at the wound but only managed to flop it in the grass. “Did you get it from the man who tried to attack the King? No,” he suddenly interrupted as Athos tried to draw the breath to speak. “Save your breath. Just nod or shake your head.” Athos nodded. Aramis let out a long breath. “I think you were poisoned, that’s why you are having trouble breathing. Are you wounded anywhere else?” A shake of the head. “Good. Hopefully you only got a partial dose. Porthos and d’Artagnan should find us soon. Just keep breathing and we’ll get you through this.”

He drifted for a bit, his world focused on each breath in and Aramis’ steady presence next to him, muttering in his ear to keep fighting, rubbing his arm with a soft hand and his chest with gentle fingers. It would be so easy just to just let go and let the noose around his chest tighten completely. But he had brothers who cared for him, he owed it to them to try and keep fighting, no matter how exhausted he felt. 

A rustle of leaves suddenly sounded behind them and Athos felt Aramis twist to point a pistol in that direction. The arm holding the pistol fell and Aramis let out a relieved huff of air.

“Athos!” cried d’Artagnan and hurried into view, crouching at Athos’ feet and dropping his blooded sword at his side. He looked at Aramis. “What happened?

“Are either of you hurt?” Asked Aramis forcefully. “You need to be sure that man’s blade didn’t touch you, it was poisoned. I’m assuming you caught up with him.”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“He came at me but I ran him through before he could get near me.”

“An’ the pup got to him before I did,” said Porthos as he crouched at Athos’ side, grabbing his stray hand and giving it a squeeze. Athos tried to squeeze back but only succeeded in twitching a finger. “Is that what’s happening to him? Poison?” Aramis nodded.

“It’s affecting his muscles, robbing him of the strength to use them. Unfortunately that includes the muscles needed to breathe. But he’s fighting.”

“Is there anything you can do?” There was an uncomfortable silence. Athos didn’t need to see Aramis to know that he had a stricken look on his face.

“It’s in his bloodstream,” Aramis muttered quietly. “And I don’t want to move him, not whilst he is in this state. We’re going to have to wait it out here.”


	19. The Musketeers - drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has a bit of trouble with hangings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Athos! Also the rose window I mention (if anyone is interested) I have modelled on the one from Château de Pierrefonds (where they filmed Merlin) as I have a postcard of the château’s courtyard on my whiteboard. It’s hard trying to peer at the intricacies of a rose window when it’s not much larger than a 5p piece on a postcard!  
> This is set sometime after the end of series 1 but before the end of series 2 so they know about Athos’ wife’s manor of ‘death’.

Athos stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers looking out over the scaffold nestled in a small château’s courtyard, its single rope noose swinging gently in the breeze. They didn’t need to be there, he thought, except the King wanted some of his Musketeers present at the execution as a show of his power, even in the outlying minor towns and as the garrison’s best (and the King’s current favourites, for now), he and his three companions were sent. He hated it.

A drum roll sounded. Out from the château’s wide wooden door came a priest then the condemned, a pitiful looking figure dressed in stained and ripped clothes that once might have been finery, flanked by two of the lord’s militia soldiers. They climbed the scaffold, the criminal reluctantly stepped towards his death, roughly dragged forward by the soldiers. The assembled crowd, all members of the nearby town and the tenant farmers of the estate given the afternoon off to watch the grizzly spectacle, called and jeered and threw the odd rotten fruit and wilted vegetable onto the stage. They pressed towards the scaffold, all desperate to have a good view. Athos was both glad and anxious that he and the other three Musketeers stood at attention at the top of a small flight of steps next to the scaffold, out of the way of the thronging crowd but with the clearest view of the execution.

The large window across from them opened and the lord appeared on the balcony above the spectator’s heads. He was a large man, dressed in far too many layers of rich, purple velvet trimmed with gold and silver braids, and accompanied by two servants, dressed in simpler purple clothing, each holding a parasol over their lord and holding either a tray of expensive fruits or a gilded goblet. Athos tuned him out as he started talking, eyes unwillingly fixed on the man at the scaffold as his head was covered with a hood and the noose placed around his neck as the priest gave him the Last Rites. This reminded him far too much of that day at his château, wife beautiful in white as the noose was placed around her neck at his orders. The images behind his eyes merged with the scene before him. He remembered the guilt, the fear, the self loathing, the helplessness, the grief, the-

A hand grasping tight around his wrist snapped him out of it.

“Breath, Athos,” came a voice to his left. Aramis. “Concentrate on my voice. Off to our left is the chapel, look at the rose window. Count the panes of glass. I want to know how many there are. Can you see the window?”

Athos managed to tear his eyes away from the scene and sought out the window. It was round and intricate and whilst he couldn’t make out the tiny shards of glass that made up the stained glass window at the distance he could see the many shapes that the stone masons had carved to create the circular window. He managed to move his head enough so that it looked like he was still facing forwards or surveying the crowd, not that anyone would be looking in their direction, but lost most of the scaffolding off the edge of his vision as he fixed his eyes on the window, and Aramis’ smiling face by his side.

“That’s it, Athos. Now start from the top. There’s a triangle, one, and another one next to it, two and the trefoil, three...”

“...four, five, six,” Athos murmured as everything went silent, “seven, eight-“

Cheers from the crowd immediately followed the sound of wood hitting wood and rope snapping taught. He felt like he had just been stabbed in the chest.

“Keep counting, Athos,” said Aramis, tightening his grip on Athos’ wrist. “Take a deep breath. What comes after eight?”

“...Nine...,” came the trembling answer as Athos desperately fought against the living nightmare that threatened to overtake him. Even though he hadn’t had the stomach to watch his wife drop from the cart, noose around her neck, his imagination had supplied the sights for the sounds that plagued his dreams for years. They were clamouring for his attention once again. “...T...ten...eleven.”

He made it up to thirty four, nearly half way round the window, before the lord’s booming voice cut across the excited chattering of the crowd.

“Cut that body down and get it out of my sight.”

Athos resolutely continued to count the windows as he saw Aramis have a wordless conversation with someone over his shoulder. A decision seemingly made he turned his attention back to Athos.

“Porthos and d’Artagnan are going to help with the body. We’re going to guard the gate and make sure everyone leaves without causing trouble. Come on.”

He turned and Athos followed, keeping his head and gaze firmly forwards. Every step away from the scaffold loosened the bands that had tightened themselves around his chest and made it hard to breath.

“Aramis,” he said as they walked. “Thank you.” Aramis beamed back at him.

“Any time, my friend.”


	20. The Musketeers - summer vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are let loose in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected sequel to prompt #1 no. 2! (no. 1 is coming up, I wrote that one first though it is later in the prompt sequence). Though as I don’t actually mention their professions this probably is really just a plain old modern AU.  
> Obviously this is set before a certain fiery event that happened to Notre Dame. Or in this AU it never happened. I tried to draw from the two times I have visited Paris but as the first time was a coach tour that unfortunately happened on a very rainy Bastille Day (everything was shut) and the second time caused so much stress and anxiety that the only bit I really remember of the entire day was the autistic meltdown I had on the Metro I apologise for any glaring mistakes or omissions.  
> Also I couldn’t resist the book reference, that station really is conveniently close to the cemetery where not only is Oscar Wilde buried, Jim Morrison and Chopin are too!

“So, where next?” asked d’Artagnan as he blinked in the bright sunshine, almost painful on the eyes after the sombre darkness of Notre Dame cathedral.

Athos followed him out, shielding his eyes with a hand.

“I don’t know but I think we’re going to have to pause here for a bit, Aramis needs time to get his brain straight again.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at Aramis emerging from the gloom, eyes blank and walking as if he was drunk. He still was grasping the rosary round his neck and had a wide, dopey smile plastered on his face.

“I told you we should have left this till last,” groused Athos, but with no real heat. “You know how he gets in religious buildings.”

“I just wanted to make sure he had plenty of time here,” said Porthos hovering behind Aramis’ shoulder. “You know he’s been looking forward to coming here for months. Just like you were looking forward to going to the Louvre.” Athos had to concede on both points: Aramis had been reading about the cathedral during any free moment in the last few weeks and would talk about it to anyone who would stand still long enough, customers included; and he knew he had done the same with the Louvre, the visit to the world famous gallery yesterday was the highlight of his year, the guidebook already well thumbed and waiting for him on his bedside table back at the hotel.

Aramis stepped towards his friends, bumping shoulders with a passing tourist but didn’t seem to notice the contact.

“Come on you,” said Porthos fondly as he grabbed Aramis by the elbow and dragged him out of the thronging crowds and into a side street. Athos and d’Artagnan followed them round the side of the cathedral to the gardens at the back. 

By the time they had settled him on one of the metal benches under the welcome shade of the ornamental trees Aramis had mostly come back to himself.

“I was so beautiful,” he said, still admiring the external architecture from where he sat. “It was just how I hoped it would be. Better even! The light through the rose window was just...” He trailed off, lost in a wonderful memory

D’Artagnan was slightly unnerved by Aramis’ out of character behaviour, not as used to the effect churches had on him than his other two friends, and distracted himself by rummaging in Athos’ bag for the maps. He ignored Athos’ raised eyebrow as he spread the city and Metro maps out on his lap, following the coloured lines on the Metro with his finger and trying to match them up on the city.

“If we get onto the Metro here,” he said pointing at the map, “and follow the blue onto the gold and change onto the green here we can get to the Eiffel Tower and then follow the green round to get to the Arc de Triomphe. Or follow the red from here onto the blue and if we get off at Alexandre Dumas we are a stone's throw from that cemetery you talked about Athos. The one where Oscar Wilde is buried.” Athos leaned over to get a better view of the map.

“Both you and Porthos said you wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower so I think we should do that, we can go to the cemetery later, perhaps after dinner. Aramis and I have been to the places we wanted to so it’s only fair you get to go where you want to. Though if you want to get to the top of the tower you’ll have to leave me behind, I can occupy myself quite happily in the Champ de Mars.”

“We’ll never get you out of those gardens if we let you loose in there,” d’Artagnan joked. “I may have to confiscate your sketchbook. What about going to the top of the Arc de Triomphe? It’s not as high and it’s made of stone. And I’m sure the views of the city would be spectacular.”

Athos’ stomach lurched at the thought.

“I’ll think about it.”


	21. Doctor Who - dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor doesn't like to sleep. 

The Doctor doesn't like to sleep. 

She remembers when she was a child, dreaming of the worlds she would walk on when she grew up, what people she would meet, what adventures she would have, with her best friend Koschei by her side.

But those childhood fantasies are long past, the innocence of them leaving a bitter taste at the back of her mouth at the merest thought of what might have been. How could she have been so naive? 

Now her sleep is the home of nightmares, memories twisted into tragedies, unable to escape guilt even in the arms of Morpheus. She curses the imagination that she had loved as a child, spiralling down timelines and spouting out false futures of death and loss and fear and loneliness.

The blood of millions drips through her fingers whether she is asleep or awake; of children, of innocents, of friends, of her own. 

With no sanctuary, nowhere to escape the images in your mind, would you like to sleep either?


	22. Doctor Who - fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor takes the Fam to a new planet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shallacatop was one of the planets that the Doctor mentioned that were stolen by the Daleks in The Stolen Earth/ Journey's End though no details were given other than its name (that what my research says anyway). So all other details are mine, apologies if I have missed any details about the planet given by the show.

“Welcome to Shallacatop!” exclaimed the Doctor as she flung open the doors of the TARDIS. A blast of hot air wafted her coat and mussed her hair. She stepped out, closely followed by the Fam, Yaz and Ryan surveying the landscape with awe as Graham shielded his eyes with a hand.

“It’s amazing!” said Yaz, looking up at the nearby mountains, their snow capped peaks sparkling emerald green under the golden sky. 

“This is one of a pair of planets that orbit around each other as they travel around their star,” explained the Doctor, hands and fingers waving in the air as she talked. “A binary planetary system. The Daleks stole it, along with Earth and 26 other planets. But I was able to put them back into their proper positions again.”

“Stole the Earth?” questioned Graham. “Is that the time there was an earthquake and it suddenly turned into night in the middle of the morning? I’d just started my shift on the bus and then suddenly I could see stars. In the middle of the mornin’!” The Doctor nodded.

“I remember the earthquakes,” said Yaz, “and hiding under the desks at school. I must have been about seven, eight.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Ryan added. “It were proper scary.”

“How can a planet be stolen, Doc?” asked Graham. The Doctor shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back onto her heels. 

“Long story short is that the Daleks wanted to destroy the universe and placed all the planets around the time rift in the Medusa Cascade to amplify the reality bomb they were going to use. But I stopped them, with the help of some friends. Then I used the TARDIS to tow the Earth back into its proper orbit. The old girl can do more than travel through time, though she wasn’t happy with me for a while, she didn’t like being used as a work horse. But giving her a bit of an overhaul got her out of her mood and-”

“ **ON YOUR FEET, PRISONER!** ” 

The Doctor gasped in surprise, head shooting up from its slumped position on her chest. She looked around in confusion as she surveyed the grey stone walls, heart sinking as she remembered the cell she was contained in, the daydream shattered and fading. She had never taken anybody to Shallacatop, let alone the Fam. 

" **ON YOUR FEET, PRISONER!** " the disembodied voice repeated.

She clambered to her feet, limbs aching from disuse, the feeling of happiness and togetherness sinking into depression, loneliness and despair. Who knew when she would see the Fam again? Would she ever get out of this cell?

She didn’t know.


	23. The Musketeers - high school AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos thinks about joining the uni's fencing club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually is university AU rather than high school. I’m only a few years out I think, not that (as a Brit) I’m familiar with USA education terminology (what’s a somophor, for example?). Also I know nothing about fencing so if I’ve got things massively wrong I apologise.   
> This is also unexpected prequel to prompt #1 no.1!

Porthos lingered by the doorway to the gym, watching the people of all ages train in there. There were all abilities there, from uncertain boys to the two fighters in the middle of the room expertly parrying and wielding their blade with ease. There were girls too, a slender young woman scored a hit on her opponent and her audience cheered her on as her long, brown ponytail bobbed in her excitement.

“Constance is really showing some natural talent,” came a voice from beyond the doorway. Porthos stuck his head in and spotted the speaker leaning against the wall by the door, looking at him. “You wouldn’t believe that a few months ago she had never picked up a foil. You can come in, you know,” the speaker added. “This isn’t a private club. You wanting to join? I’m Aramis, by the way.”

“Porthos. And I’d always fancied a go with a sword,” he said as he stepped into the room and joined Aramis against the wall. “Would make a change from fighting with my fists.”

“Are you a member of the boxing club?” Porthos shook his head. “Have you thought about joining it?”

“I tried. They, er, didn’t, well, you know. Want me.” Porthos made a vague motion towards himself as he tried to block out the memories of the disdain that tainted their dismissive words even though they never actually uttered the slurs that he could see behind their eyes. The laughter that followed him out of the gym had haunted him for days afterwards. It was only now, a few months into his first semester, that he had gathered the courage to approach another sports club. Aramis’ eyes went wide.

“Didn’t want…? They…” Aramis was speechless for a second as the hidden meaning behind Porthos’ words sunk in. “Well, fuck the boxing club! And they say we’re the elitist ones. We’ll make a swordsman out of you.” He turned towards an older man supervising a bout between two masked figures. “Captain! I’ve got a new pupil for you!”

Within the half hour Porthos found himself in the thick of things, mask balanced on the top of his head as a posh sounding boy by the name of Athos patiently talked him through the basics of fencing: the three main types and their differences, and talked him through a few moves in a very slow moving mock bout against Aramis with an épée. 

He’d been apprehensive about Athos as soon as he heard his accent as he had bad experience with those types of people before, but soon found that Athos was calm and understanding and not patronising despite clearly having years of experience with fencing under his belt against Porthos’ none. 

The next hour passed in a happy blur and Porthos was a little disappointed at its end. He helped Aramis and Athos put their equipment away, just to prolong the feeling just a little bit longer; he hadn’t had this much fun and felt this sense of belonging since he had left his old boxing club last summer.

“Are you thinking about coming next week?” asked Athos as he checked the weapons were put away safely. “You’ve got promise, we’ve just got to get you to unlearn some of that boxing footwork.”

“I hope so,” he replied. “I had fun.”

“You doing anything tonight?” Aramis asked Porthos as he joined the pair as they left the gym. “Only there’s this little pub called The Wren in town and I was wondering if you would like to join us in sampling it’s wonderful delights.”

“Watching you chatting up that barmaid you fancy, you mean,” countered Athos.

“Sure,” said Porthos. “Beats writing an essay.” 

As Aramis slung a friendly arm around his shoulders Porthos thought that these boys were worth sticking around with. He knew that one day they could become good friends.


	24. The Musketeers - there was only one bed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a little problem with the sleeping arrangements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As there are four men in this story I had to expand the prompt to ‘only two beds!’ as I didn’t think four grown men would be able to fit in even the biggest standard sized bed available in hotels.  
> Also this is the penultimate prompt fill, though it is the last prompt in the list. Unexpected modern AU sequel part 3, set a day or two after sequel part 1!

“Are you sure you got the booking right?” asked d’Artagnan as he surveyed the double bed that sat in the little hotel tucked away in the French countryside. It was just the same as the first room, sparse and utilitarian, a small TV sitting on the corner of the desk against the opposite wall than the bed. A single, double bed.

“Yes,” Aramis replied, shaking the printed booking confirmation in his direction. Porthos snatched it out of the air and read it.

“‘E’s right. Says ‘ere two rooms ith two beds each.” Porthos passed the paper to Athos.

“I’ll go down to the front desk,” Athos said. “Wait here, there’s no point lugging our cases back downstairs again. I’ll be back in a bit.”

* * *

“Apparently there’s a TV series being made in the area,” said Athos on his return, “and the film crew and cast have taken up all the hotel rooms in the whole area. So we’re stuck with these rooms or we keep on driving and risk not finding anywhere close enough to visit the castle tomorrow.”

“You know what I’m gonna vote for,” said Porthos. “I’ve been wanting to go to Pierrefonds for ages.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” shrugged Aramis. “It’s not like we didn’t share during the odd night at uni.”

“D’Artagnan?” asked Athos. “Would you mind sharing a bed with one of us? Or should we find somewhere else?”

D’Artagnan chewed his lip.

“I’ve got nothing against it per se.” he said. “I’ve just never shared with anyone before.” He seemed to make a decision and nodded. “We’ll stay. I just apologise to whoever I share with, I have no idea what I do in my sleep.”

“You can’t be worse than Aramis,” said Porthos as he slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulders. “He is quite the clinger. But don’t worry, I’ll save you that experience this time. Athos is just as unobtrusive asleep as awake.”

* * *

“Well, this feels weird,” said d’Artagnan, staring up at the ceiling. Athos looked down at him, sat next to him on the bed, thick rimmed glasses perched on his nose and book open on his lap.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to molest you in your sleep. That’s Aramis’ job.” He grinned at d’Artagnan’s horrified face. “Relax, it was once whilst we were at uni and it was an accident after imbibing something of dubious legality at a party. He was horrified when he woke up, as well as being in the grip of a massive hangover. Apparently he was dreaming of having fun with mermaids, and I think you can guess what kind of fun. Suffice to say he swore never to take any drugs again, so you’re safe. Porthos and I were just glad he came home with us and not some girl he picked up at the party.” 

“So did you three regularly share beds whilst at uni?”

“Not with any regularity but we tended to share after parties if one of us got too drunk or too tired to make our way back to our own flats. Porthos was usually the designated driver so we ended up at his most of the time. Or when we had an early morning lecture we would stay with whoever lived the closest to whichever campus we needed to be at. It wasn’t until our third year that we managed to get a house together.”

“Oh.” 

Silence settled across them both. Athos closed his book and put it and his glasses on the bedside table, turning off the small light and casting the room into shadows. He didn’t need to see to know that d’Artagnan was lying tense as a board next to him. He sighed.

“Go to sleep, d’Artagnan. By the way, the next time Aramis teases you just make some vague mention of mermaids and he should stop. Just don't tell him you heard the story from me.”

He felt more than heard the pup’s huff of laughter but he finally seemed to relax just a fraction.

* * *

“I wonder how d’Artagnan is doing?” asked Aramis, sitting up in bed writing into the journal resting on his knees.

“He’ll be fine,” replied Porthos, sitting next to him, eyes not leaving his phone. “Athos will look after him.”

Aramis looked over to him.

“What ya doing?”

“Checking everything for tomorrow.” Aramis smiled at him fondly.

“You’ve charged your camera and you have plenty of space on the card, Athos has booked our tickets and has put the car park in the satnav and marked it on the road map. We know when breakfast is tomorrow and when we have to leave to get to the castle on time. We all have several alarms. There is nothing to go wrong, stop worrying.” Porthos turned his phone off and dropped it into his lap, fixing a sheepish look on his best friend.

“Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to this since we booked this holiday and I don’t want it to go wrong.”

“I know, and you’ve coped with both Athos and I being just as excited before our trips just as you are. I thought Athos was going to vibrate to pieces before we even entered the Louvre!” Porthos snorted at the memory. 

Aramis put his journal on his bedside table and shuffled down the bed, pulling on Porthos’ arm for him to do the same.

“Come here.”

They ended up in each other’s arms in the darkness, Porthos sprawled across Aramis’ chest, head resting on his shoulder.

“I’d forgotten how nice this is,” Porthos murmured. “We should do it more often.” Aramis rubbed his fingers across Porthos’ scalp.

“Go to sleep, Porthos. You’ve got a day of castle exploring tomorrow.”


	25. The Musketeers - joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville waits for a certain four to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve almost certainly got the colours of the horses wrong (if there is even any consistency in the show) as I had the choice of getting the prompt written with no research or research done but no writing! Also being autistic makes describing emotions difficult, but I have tried my best.

Treville rested his elbows against the wooden railing outside his office and watched the men below spar. Swords clashed together and men cheered, one man tripped and was thrown into the stable’s dung heap for his trouble, graciously accepting the friendly hand helping him back to his feet. Any other day he would have laughed at the incident with his men, but not this day.

His gaze kept wandering to the archway that separated the garrison from the busy streets of Paris. No one passed through, though he desperately wished someone would. Or rather a particular foursome would. They were two days overdue.

He had sent three men in their general expected direction ostensibly to escort a courtier to his family estate but with the understanding that they would also scout the area to see if they could find any clue to the Inseperable’s whereabouts.

He wasn’t supposed to have favourites but somehow these four men had wormed their way firmly into his heart. The survivor, the outcast, the ex-compt and the young pup. On paper they shouldn’t have worked so well together but against all odds they had a brotherhood the like he had not seen in his entire military career. It was not like them to be late, unless they had encountered trouble, and they seemed to attract the worst kind of trouble.

A clatter of metal shod hooves against stone cobbles startled him into awareness again, and he shot his attention back to the archway. A black horse rode in first, carrying two riders, then a chestnut with one rider, and two bays, one with a rider and the other empty. Behind them were the three men he had sent out yesterday. 

The men who moments before were sparring scattered to make room for the horses, several of them stepping forwards to hold their reins whilst others helped the riders down. 

One of the figures on the shared horse stepped down first, reaching up with bandaged wrists to steady the man he was sat behind as the one still in the saddle wavered, head bowed. The dismounted man turned and shouted for hot water to be prepared in the infirmary, Aramis’ voice clear over the quiet murmurings of the assembled Musketeers. The shout roused the mounted figure, and he lifted his head, revealing Athos’ gaunt and exhausted features. 

Behind them, his blue cloak almost black with a coat of wet mud, d’Artagnan was shivering so violently Treville could see it from where he was standing. He fell more than dismounted, helping hands from the surrounding Musketeers preventing him from falling to the floor.

Athos rose from the saddle stiffly and dismounted in a similar fashion to d’Artagnan, face paleing even further by the obviously painful movement. Aramis slipped his shoulders under Athos’ arm as he was shepherded towards the infirmary after his young protégé. 

Porthos was the last to descend from his horse, watching the others be taken care of before dismounting with just a little trepidation. A bandage wrapped around his head under his hat and his face was graced with a black eye. His knuckles were split and bruised. He turned to the balcony once his feet reached the ground and gave his captain a smile and a tip of the hat before following his brothers to the infirmary.

A weight was suddenly lifted from Treville’s heart, making his limbs weaken and he found himself gripping onto the wooden railing to stop himself from sinking to the floor.

His men were alive and mostly whole. They would recover with time and rest.

A band that he didn’t know was there released from around his chest and he gasped for air, almost dizzy with relief. A grin spread uncontrollably across his face and he turned from the yard to hide his emotion from the men.

They were safe. They were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last fill for Writer’s Month! This is the first time I have participated in a prompt month and I am proud to say I have completed all 31 prompts! You can find my non-fandom fills on my Tumblr – evieswritingjournal - where you can also suggest prompts to me if you want to see more of anything I have written. I’m happy to write, I just need ideas!

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are wondering where the missing prompts in the sequence are (or are just curious about what else I write), they are original works and you can find them [on my Tumblr.](https://evieswritingjournal.tumblr.com/)


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